Dark Horse
by Varia Lectio
Summary: A story of the steed of the Witch-King, and how he came to be a slave of Mordor, and how he came to be free.


Dark Horse   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The black horse galloped.  
  
He galloped, not because he wanted to, nor because he enjoyed it, but because he had to. The thing on his back would not let him rest, or stop for a nibble of grass. The barbed spurs that were sunk into his black flanks drove him on, ceaselessly, until the breath rattled from his knife-gouged nostrils.   
  
Ahead, there galloped a white horse, a horse of the Elven folk, with a small cloaked rider upon it. The horse's bridle and saddle jingled with tiny silver bells, and golden embroidery glittered upon the Elven horse's reins.  
  
Ahead the was the sound of rushing, roaring water. The black steed panted with thirst, and foaming spittle flew from his lips, flecked with drops of crimson. His rider's bit sawed at his mouth; the thing riding him did not bother to be gentle.   
  
Oh, how he longed to throw off his rider, cease this useless pursuit, and plunge into those cool, flowing waters that lay ahead! Whether or not death took him, it would be better than this slavery, this base servitude. The thing that rode him had the smell of a man, but it was the smell of man-flesh long corrupted, the scent of a corpse left to rot in a dark, dank place that crawled with worms. The thing that rode him had once been a Man, but now it was a Man no longer. It remembered nothing of human kindness.   
  
The white Elven horse leapt across the river, bounding through the shallows, stepping swiftly onto slick, smooth stones, crossing the river until it reached the other side... the side of safety.  
  
The black horse longed to follow, but the bit was in his torn mouth, sawing back against raw flesh as his cloaked rider pulled on the reins. "Come back," his rider called; the voice of the thing made the horse shiver and pant. "Come back; to Mordor we will take you!"  
  
To Mordor, the black horse had once been taken, long ago; to Mordor he had been taken, and there he had been enslaved to the thing that now was mounted upon his back.   
  
But once (the memory flickered dimly in a corner of the horse's mind) there had been other things than pain. There had been endless green fields. A soft halter of rope that had jingled merrily with bells, rather than a cruel-biting bit that tore and cut. Blond-haired people who had braided his long ebony mane with colorful ribbons, and who had put soft embroidered blankets upon his back. He had been a prince among horses, once... a horse of the Mearas blood.  
  
But thieves had come in the night; thieves who cursed and spat in a strange, foul tongue. They had taken him away from the green fields where he had been foaled; they had borne him away on a long, long journey. He had smelled their awful, blood-streaked scent, a scent of death and terror and anger; the smell of creatures that enjoyed cruelty and pain to other living things.  
  
But even the scent of those foul, stooping captors, with their hunched shoulders and bowed legs, had been preferable to the rider that he bore now.   
  
The horse halted, and waited. He longed to put his muzzle down and drink from the river, but he did not dare. His limbs trembled.   
  
His rider's spurs dug into his sides, suddenly, gashing and ripping, bringing forth blood that he could smell. Crying out in pain, rearing in terror at the cold scent of his rider's wrath, the horse obeyed, galloping forward, heading for the Elven horse and its small rider, who swayed in the saddle as he turned to face his pursuers.   
  
As he crossed the river, the black horse realized how good the cold water felt against his aching hooves, how good the cold water felt against his torn sides as it splashed up against his flesh. There was no chance to stop, however, and so he plunged on, with the water lapping against his dark fur, rising up to his knees, then up to his chest...  
  
Then the sound of the running river became much louder. Much, much louder. There was a final flash of agony as his rider jerked his head around with a sharp tug of the reins. The black horse obeyed, turning suddenly, almost rearing up in the midst of the river as his hated, hateful rider turned him back to the the side that he had left just a moment ago.   
  
But it was too late.   
  
White steeds, bearing riders, galloping like the onrushing wind, faster than any mortal horse could run, came for him. Spray flashed away from their flanks as they ran; foam churned against their breasts and withers as they rushed toward the black horse and his rider. They were galloping to him, and none could outrun them. And Men with fire in their hands were behind him now, in the very place that his rider wished him to return to!  
  
The black horse found that he did not really want to run, even though his rider's bit slashed his mouth to the bone and even though the metal spurs sank into his flesh and ripped open his sides. He ignored the panicked screams of his rider, ignored the flat of the sword-blade that his rider beat against his thigh.  
  
He simply let the water-steeds take him away.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Later, an Elf of the people of Rivendell walked along the banks of the Ford of Bruinen. He shaded his keen, bright eyes with a hand as he looked and searched. Lord Elrond had sent him out to search after the Nine Wraiths, and so far he had had no success in his search.   
  
A shout from a fellow member of his company got his attention. He looked, and saw another Elf across the Ford wave to him, and hold up the shredded remnants of a black cloak. "Something of their raiment, perhaps?" the other Elf called to him.   
  
He nodded in reply. "Indeed. It appears to be a cloak. Perhaps the Nazgul have not merely been unhorsed, but their foul spirits have been sent back to Mordor shivering and naked. Their Lord will not be pleased with them!"  
  
He smiled at the thought, then he saw a larger black shape up ahead, half-hidden by some outward-thrusting boulders. The river-water lapped and foamed over the boulders, and a scrap of black cloth moved to and fro in the current like a dark serpent's tail.  
  
The Elf walked over to the dark shape. When he saw what it was, he covered his eyes in horror.  
  
It was a black stallion. Once it had been a fine living animal, with a deep chest, long, straight limbs and a strongly muscled neck; now it was mere carrion.  
  
He dared to look more closely at the poor animal's body. What he saw horrified him all the more. Scars covered the dead stallion's hide; long scars from whips and chains; scars from the sharp points of cruel spurs; scars from months of hard and ceaseless travel.   
  
The horse's head was a horror. Its nostrils had been gouged and torn open to nearly twice the normal size; cut open by the blades of Mordor. Its skin was raw and red from the tight and pressing bridle and headstraps. It's mouth was torn and flayed by the heavy, sharpened bit that hung obscenely from the sides of its mutilated head.   
  
He felt like weeping. No animal should endure enslavement by the Ringwraiths; its death had been a blessing. But... he looked closer still...  
  
This had been a fine and noble animal in life, surely. Even among the steeds of his own people, the Elf thought to himself that he had rarely seen an animal to rival this one. He remembered stories that he had heard of a people called the Rohirrim, who raised steeds of singular beauty, strength, and wit. They were said to be among the finest horses in Middle-earth, but he had never seen any... though, perhaps, today, he was seeing one of them for the very first time...  
  
At any rate, whether in life or death, this animal had not deserved such a rider, nor had it merited such an end. He would do what he could for it, at least. He knelt down and unsheathed his knife.   
  
In a few strokes of the knife, he had cut away the heavy black saddle from the dead horse's back, and he had sliced through the straps of the bridle, and had pulled the bit from the horse's mouth.   
  
He stood up, bearing the waterlogged gear in his hands. He would take these things back, as proof of the Black Riders' demise. He stepped away slowly from the horse's body. The horse's tangled black mane flowed in the water's currents, and for a moment he fancied that once in happier days a loving owner might have combed it and braided it with gentle hands.  
  
At least now, in death, it was at last free.   
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
The End. 


End file.
